


there and back again

by hollimichele



Series: the dogfather au [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-09-24 17:49:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20362597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollimichele/pseuds/hollimichele
Summary: The summer after Draco’s first year at Hogwarts was perfectly lovely.





	1. Chapter 1

The summer after Draco’s first year at Hogwarts was perfectly lovely. Draco went flying nearly every day, weather allowing, and there was a really splendid run of sunny days, all the way through June and into July. He bullied the house-elves into letting him raid the kitchen whenever he liked. Father took him to London for his birthday, to pick out a new broom that he could take to Hogwarts in the fall. 

When they got back to the Manor, there was a little stack of cards and presents waiting for him. Most of the larger, better things were from his parents, of course, but Goyle had sent him a clumsily-wrapped box from Honeydukes, and he had cards from Pansy and Theo and Harry and Blaise.

Harry’s card even came with a letter: a long cheerful one, rattling on about assorted Muggle nonsense that Draco mostly skimmed. At the bottom, Draco read  _ I asked Padfoot to put a paw-print on but apparently it’s beneath his dignity. He sends his best wishes too, though. Your friend -- Harry. _

And that was a bit surprising, when Draco thought about it. Were they friends? Draco didn’t know if a handful of shared secrets and half an hour laughing at the Dark Lord together ought to be enough to count. But apparently Harry  _ did _ think that counted, even though Draco had been -- well -- rather unkind, if he were to be perfectly honest. Certainly he’d said a number of things to Harry, back before he’d known that Harry was Harry Potter, and that his dog was Draco’s cousin, and that the Dark Lord had been hiding under Professor Quirrell’s hat -- things that he might not have said to a friend.

Draco would just have to make up for it somehow. Father said that it was always wise to cultivate friendships with influential and important people, whether or not you agreed with them. It only made sense to start early. If Harry had some odd ideas, it wasn’t his fault: he’d mostly been raised by Muggles, after all, and cousin Sirius probably couldn’t be a very good influence if he had to be a dog most of the time.

Since Draco had the benefit of a respectable magical upbringing, he would just have to provide a good example. He told his parents as much, and they seemed pleased about it. But that wasn’t any surprise to Draco: they were proper wizarding parents, and knew how one ought to behave.

Well. Usually they did. Draco’s father was not in the habit of having loud public arguments with madmen, obviously; neither did he engage in shoving matches with other adults. And yet, despite this, the incident with Mr. Lovegood in the bookshop cast rather a pall on the last few days of Draco’s summer.

Still, Draco felt eager and hopeful as he boarded the train. He was going to get top marks, and make his parents proud, and be friends with Harry Potter, and beat the stuffing out of Gryffindor at Quidditch.

Not even Granger could dampen Draco’s spirits, though she tried -- attempting to waylay him en route to the compartment he was sharing with Crabbe and Goyle and the other second-year Slytherins.

“If you must talk someone’s ear off, I’m sure Weasley’s is available,” he told her, and carried on.

He heard her sputter behind him, something like “But that’s what I was saying -- Ron isn’t -- oh, why did I even--!” but he carried on ignoring her. It wouldn’t do to encourage the likes of her, even if Harry  _ did _ put up with it somehow. He needed Draco to set him right, obviously.

Draco was going to do great things, this year. He was sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

When he boarded the Hogwarts Express at the end of his second year, all Draco really wanted was to be left alone for a little while. He went the whole length of the train, up and down, before conceding that this would be impossible.

He could have sat with the other Slytherins in his year, of course, but they had all spent the last few days of term very carefully not asking him questions about what had really happened, and giving him sidelong glances whenever they thought he wasn’t paying attention. He could have sat with Harry, but that meant sitting with Weasley and Granger as well. Ron wasn’t the problem, really -- they had reached a wary detente even before Draco helped rescue his sister, and might now be approaching something that could be called camaraderie. But Granger would almost certainly pelt him with questions about the diary and the basilisk and the Chamber, and demand copies of his class notes from the time she’d been Petrified.

What Draco really wanted was to sit quietly and avoid thinking about anything upsetting, but that didn’t seem to be one of the options on offer. It wasn’t the least bit fair.

Finally he gave up, and chose the nearest compartment that wasn’t noisy enough, inside, to hear from the corridor.

Inside, a tiny fair-haired girl in a Ravenclaw tie was sitting curled up on the bench, gazing dreamily out the window.

“Um,” said Draco. He briefly reconsidered Granger as an option. “Hello Luna. Can I sit in here?”

“Oh yes,” said Luna Lovegood.

Draco dragged his trunk in behind him, and wedged it under the seat next to Luna’s. She had decoupaged her trunk extensively, he noticed, with all sorts of odd things. He sat down in the opposite corner from Luna, and wished he had something to do with his hands, or something to read -- anything that meant he didn’t have to stare at the wall and wonder if he ought to say something.

Luna broke the silence first.

“Are you all right?” 

Draco stared at her. “Am _ I _ all right?” he said. “I’m not the one who was Petrified, or given a cursed diary, or--” He cut himself off, because he was trying very hard not to think about who had given Luna the cursed diary in the first place. 

It wasn’t as though Luna had any reason to care, anyway.

“Yes, but I know _ I’m _ all right,” said Luna. “I’m not Petrified anymore, and I didn’t have the diary for very long, not like poor Ginny. I’m a bit put out about missing so much class, I suppose.”

“Well, I’m fine,” Draco said. “And I didn’t miss any classes, so -- there you have it.”

“Then I’m glad,” said Luna, and the strangest thing was that she seemed to mean it. 

Draco remembered, thankfully, that he _ did _ have something to read: the book Harry had lent him, ages ago, and he dug it out with a feeling of deep relief. He hadn’t really wanted to read it all that badly, for all that Harry insisted he’d like it. Draco had never seen the point in that sort of Muggle rubbish.

But given a choice between Muggle rubbish and talking to Luna about what had happened in the Chamber of Secrets, well: pile on the rubbish, please and thank you.

Draco made a bit of a show of settling himself down and paying keen attention to the book, and it worked well enough that, when he snuck a glance at her, Luna had resumed staring out the window. That meant he really had nothing else to do but actually read the book, unless he wanted to stare unseeing at the flyleaf all the way to London. So Draco suppressed a sigh, turned to the first page, and read: _ In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. _

Draco was a fast reader, and he’d made good headway by the time they arrived at King’s Cross. He felt a bit reluctant to give the book back; after all, he couldn’t exactly pick up a copy of his own at Flourish & Blotts. But then he practically ran over Harry on the platform, just as he got off the train, so he supposed he ought to to the decent thing and return it.

“There you are!” said Harry. He had Weasley and Granger flanking him, of course, and Ginny lurking a bit farther back, still looking rather wan and teary.

“Hang on a second,” said Draco; Luna was struggling with her trunk. He helped her pull it down onto the platform. It was astonishingly heavy. He wondered if Ravenclaws just carried their own weight in books around with them at all times, or something.

“Here,” Draco said, and offered Harry his book back -- and Ginny flinched, visibly. Ron frowned at Draco, and turned to put an arm around his sister, murmuring something comforting. Luna pushed past Draco to join them. Harry and Hermione both looked torn between worry and disapproval.

“It’s not -- I didn’t mean -- it’s your book, the one about the hobbit,” Draco said. “I forgot I still had it. I was reading it on the train -- I didn’t think.”

“It’s all right,” Harry said. “I’ve got another copy at home.”

“I haven’t _ done _ anything to it,” Draco said. He didn’t like how sharp his own voice went, saying that, or the hot guilty feeling that prickled down his neck. _ He _ hadn’t done anything wrong; he had helped! 

It wasn’t fair for Harry to act like Draco was -- well. 

Like he was Father.

But he wasn’t, after all. Harry shook his head. “No, I mean -- you should finish reading it, if you want to,” he said. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“We know you wouldn’t do something like that,” Hermione said.

Half of Draco felt pleased: of course they did; of course he wouldn’t. The other half said _ hang on, don’t be so trusting! Where’s your sense of self-preservation, you pack of idiot Gryffindors? _

Mother was waiting for Draco on the other side of the barrier, and she was alone. She smiled at him, but it was the pinched smile that meant she was annoyed about something.

“Darling,” she said. “Have you got all your things?”

“Yes, Mother,” Draco said. He’d shoved the book into the bottom of his rucksack before he left the platform. “Is Father going to meet us?”

“Your father is waiting for us at home,” Mother said. “We had a discussion this morning; we thought it best to avoid any chance of an unpleasant scene.”

Over Mother’s shoulder, Draco could see Harry greeting his family. His father had seized him up in an embrace, and was showily kissing the top of his head; Padfoot was barking and jumping up and down while Harry’s mother laughed. Draco could hear Harry’s protests, but they sounded more pleased than embarrassed. Somewhere behind Draco, Ron’s mother was bawling out Fred and George.

They didn’t go to the nearest Floo, the way they normally did. Instead Mother shrank Draco’s trunk and his broom small enough to tuck into a pocket of her robes, and said “I’ve a bit of a surprise for you, dear. Now, hold on tight--”

Draco detested Side-Along Apparition -- it always made him queasy -- but he forgot about complaining when he got his bearings. They were in an open meadow somewhere, a place Draco had never seen before.

“Where are we?” he said.

“About an hour from home, by broomstick,” Mother said. “I know how you miss long-distance flying at school, so I thought this would be a nice treat.”

She took Draco’s broom out, enlarged it, and produced one of her own from another pocket. Then, while Draco flew in ecstatic loops about the meadow, she tied a silk scarf over her hair, pinned it in place with a charm, and took up an elegant side-saddle perch on her own broom.

For a while, Draco was enjoying himself too much to worry. It was beautiful flying weather. Mother seemed content to glide steadily along while Draco flew circles around her, climbing as high as he could, then dropping to brush the tops of the tall grass with his feet.

Eventually, thought, he pulled level with her broom, and had to ask the question. “Is Father very upset with me?”

Mother turned to look at him. “Oh, Draco,” she said. Her pinched expression went away, enough that Draco could tell it wasn’t _ him _ she was annoyed at. “Certainly not. I’m not best pleased with your father, just at the moment, but we’re both very proud of _ you_. You were terribly brave.”

So _ that _ was all right. Draco didn’t like the idea of his parents quarreling -- they hardly ever did, that he could recall -- but at least it was over something Father could apologize for, and make right.

“I didn’t know if he was, when he came to the school,” Draco admitted. “He seemed awfully angry, and when I found out what had happened -- what he did --”

“I don’t know what he was thinking, I really don’t,” said Mother. For a moment Draco was wonderfully relieved: she understood. But then Mother went on, “Your father has set himself back years with the Board of Governors _ and _ the Ministry. And we’re short a house-elf! All because he couldn’t hold his temper with that absurd man and his silly rag of a magazine.”

But that wasn’t what Draco meant at all. “But that wasn’t Luna’s fault! And Ginny was hurt too, even worse, and everyone who was Petrified. None of that ought to have happened.”

Mother pulled her broom closer to Draco’s, so they were nearly flying in tandem. “No, darling, but it really was an accident. He thought that diary had a bit of a hex, nothing more. Not cursed, and certainly not cursed as badly as that.”

It hadn’t seemed that way to Draco. And there was more to it, that he wasn’t sure if Father even knew all of, or whether he’d told Mother if he did.

“It wasn’t only cursed,” Draco said.

Haltingly, Draco explained just what he’d seen in the basilisk’s chamber. How he’d met the shade of Tom Riddle, and helped Harry and Ron destroy him, and in doing so saved Ginny Weasley’s life.

Mother went paler and more pinched as the story went on. At the end she said, “Let’s land for a moment -- I think my scarf is slipping off.”

It wasn’t, of course, but when Draco climbed down from his broom Mother gave him a very tight hug, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I didn’t know it was as bad as that,” she said. “Or as dangerous. The Headmaster didn’t tell us.”

Which was odd, because Draco thought Dumbledore _ had _ told Father.

“It’s all right, Mother,” Draco said. “We came through perfectly well. I suppose Professor Lockhart’s still a bit of a mess, but I’m sure they’re already fixing him up at Saint Mungo’s.”

“Quite,” said Mother. She smiled -- a real smile. A trifle watery, but not the least bit pinched.

“Ready?” said Draco. He picked up their brooms, and offered Mother hers.

“Oh yes,” Mother said. “Off we go, darling. Onwards and upwards!”

The rest of the summer was nice enough. Not as much good flying weather as last year, but rather more extravagant birthday presents from Mother and Father. Goyle sent his usual Honeydukes box, and Harry sent him books: sequels to the one he’d already given Draco.

Father looked rather askance at their plain Muggle bindings, just cheap shiny paper and unmoving art on the covers, but he held his tongue. He still seemed a bit subdued, a hair more chastened than usual -- but, after all, he had made a rather dreadful mistake. Father had always told Draco that one must own up to one’s mistakes, and learn to do better the next time.

He even, at Draco’s urging, sent Ginny Weasley and her parents a letter of apology, for allowing his rash act, committed in an unthinking fit of temper, to inadvertently lead an innocent bystander to harm. 

The letter was in Mother’s handwriting, technically, and she and Draco had worked out most of the wording between them, but Father had _ signed _ it, and that was the important thing.

By summer’s end, Draco felt as if everything was properly back to normal. The chill between his parents had long since gone, evaporated like mist on a sunny morning. Going to London for Draco’s school things was every bit as enjoyable as it had been last year, before the Bookshop Incident, and this time there was no unpleasantness to mar it.

Draco even had a little time to meet Harry for ice cream, and the forbearance not to complain when he brought Weasley and Granger along with him, and not Padfoot. He had rather hoped that he and Harry would have a chance to talk without the looming threat of a Granger monologue, but perhaps it was too soon for that.

“We’re going to the Natural History Museum after this,” Harry said. “You can come, if you’d like.”

Draco frowned, puzzled. “A Muggle museum? Whatever for?”

“It’s not bad, really,” said Weasley. “They’ve got all sorts of funny things. Bits of creatures that died a million years ago and turned to stone. Penguin eggs from Antarctica. A piece of the moon, even.”

“Oh yes,” said Draco, laughing, “and I suppose they keep it next to a bit of Merlin’s beard and Babbitty Rabbitty’s cackling stump! The moon, really. Muggles will believe anything.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” Harry said. “If you gave it a chance. But never mind; you’ll see Padfoot soon enough, either way.”

“What do you mean?” asked Draco.

“It’s a surprise!” said Granger, as if he’d asked _ her_.

“Don’t worry, mate,” said Weasley. “This is one of Harry’s nicer surprises.”

“It’s not my surprise at all,” said Harry, but he was laughing, so presumably Granger and Weasley knew what they were talking about.

“That’s what you said about Padfoot the last time,” said Weasley. “C’mon, we’d better go.”

“But--!” said Draco, to no avail. 

He’d wanted to talk about the books Harry sent for Draco’s birthday.

Well. They’d have all year for that, he supposed.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco spent half of the last week of term in the hospital wing, and that turned out to be the better half.

It was all over by the time he woke up: the moon had set, Pettigrew and the Lestranges had fled, Sirius and Buckbeak were free. Weasley filled him in, because he’d only the broken leg to mend, and was awake for most of it. Draco, who’d taken a blow to the head from that stupid tree, on top of his broken arm and a Stunning Spell later on, wasn’t conscious for another half a day, and missed everything.

So he was not, perhaps, as mindful as he might have been of what he ought to say, or not say, when Mother arrived, nearly at a run and decidedly lacking her usual unruffled calm.

“Oh, Draco!” she said, and looked on the verge of actual tears.

“It’s all right, Mother,” he said, and pushed himself up to sitting with the arm that hadn’t been broken -- the same one the hippogriff had gone for, of all the rotten luck. “I’m fine, I promise.”

“What _ happened_?” she said. “Dumbledore said it was -- but I can’t believe she would -- and your father has been trying to get at the truth but no one will _ tell _ us --”

Draco had never seen her so upset. He didn’t like it at all. In the usual order of things, _ he _ was the one who got upset, and talking to her or to Father was how he sorted everything out.

(The last time he’d done that, of course, he’d accidentally condemned Buckbeak to death, and Harry hadn’t spoken to him for months. Since then, he’d tried to be more circumspect about what he told his parents. But that was the last thing on his mind, just at that moment; and anyway it was Father who he had to be careful about. Draco never had anything less than perfect confidence in his mother’s discretion.)

Draco told her everything: the parts he saw firsthand, in the Shrieking Shack and in the forest, and the parts he only heard from Weasley, after the fact. That meant telling her about Peter Pettigrew, and then about his cousin Sirius, because the rest wouldn’t make sense otherwise.

The last thing Draco properly remembered was Professor Snape, flanked by Padfoot on one side and Professor Lupin, who was even bigger than Padfoot as a wolf, on the other. Draco was behind them, with Ron and Harry and Hermione, and they were facing the four Death Eaters: Pettigrew, and Rastaban Lestrange, and Draco’s aunt and uncle.

“Cast _ Protego_, and keep casting it,” Professor Snape told them. 

And they had, but Professor Lupin had only taught it to them recently, and there were such a _ lot _ of spells coming at them. Bellatrix seemed to cast three hexes for every one of Professor Snape’s. And one of them had gotten past, and that was all, until Draco woke up again in the hospital wing.

“Ron -- Weasley -- he said that Sirius changed back from Padfoot and got the upper hand in the duel, and he told Professor Snape to get us back to the castle, that he and Professor Lupin would run them off,” Draco said. “And then there was a whole mess with the Aurors, and the Dementors, but Hermione and Harry got round them somehow so at least Sirius got away on Buckbeak.”

Over the course of this narrative, Mother had gathered some of her usual calm about her. She still looked very upset, of course, but in rather a different way than she had at the start.

“So Bella attacked you,” she said. “And your cousin protected you. And your teacher is a werewolf.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Draco. “I wasn’t best pleased when I found out, but he does take Wolfsbane Potion and apparently Harry’s known for ages.”

Weasley had been nearly as upset as Draco, which had been comforting at the time, for a moment, until Draco remembered it was _ Weasley _ he was sharing that fellow-feeling with. And of course Granger had long since worked it out on her own, which was just typical.

Mother did not take the news any better. Which was fair enough, Draco supposed: it _ was _ rather horrible, to find out someone you knew was a werewolf.

“Mother,” Draco said, “are you all right? I know it’s all very shocking.”

She seemed to remember herself, then. She smiled at Draco, only slightly watery at the corners.

“I’ll be fine, darling,” she said. “Nothing to worry about; you just do as Madam Pomfrey says, and I’ll handle the rest.”

“All right,” Draco said. “But -- it was supposed to be a secret, about cousin Sirius. And it wasn’t his fault, what happened, or Professor Lupin’s. They won’t be in any more trouble, will they?”

“I’ll handle it,” Mother said firmly. 

And Draco trusted that she would -- until he found out that Professor Lupin was leaving.

Harry was furious at him all over again, of course. This time Draco couldn’t even blame him.

Professor Lupin wasn’t, somehow.

Draco nearly missed him entirely: he was already outside the castle, and halfway to his carriage. In daylight, Draco could scarcely believe that this slight, kind, patient man could ever become the massive, snarling beast he’d seen a few nights before. 

But he was, and now everyone knew it, because Draco’s mother had told Draco’s father, and Draco’s father had demanded that he be sacked.

“I resigned, actually,” Professor Lupin said, when Draco tried to apologize. “It’s all right, Draco. I expected I’d have to, one way or another. Most parents don’t want a werewolf teaching their children.”

“But it’s not _ fair_,” Draco said. “And it _ is _ my fault -- if I had kept my mouth shut --”

“Your mother put your safety first,” said Professor Lupin. “As she should. I don’t blame you, or her -- especially since she could have made things much worse for Padfoot, and she didn’t.”

This had not occurred to Draco.

“You’ll see me again, I’m sure,” Professor Lupin went on. “I’ll be tutoring Harry this summer, assuming the Aurors allow it. And if you have a letter for Padfoot, you can send it to me and I’ll pass it on.”

“All right,” said Draco. He was still thinking -- about secrets, and his family, and what his mother had said and what she had kept to herself.

“Harry told me he goes to a Muggle museum with his parents and you and Padfoot, every summer,” Draco said. “He invited me along, last year, but I said no.”

“That’s too bad,” said Professor Lupin. “I suspect you might have found it enlightening.”

“Well, if Harry ever speaks to me again, I’d like to come along,” Draco said. “Would you tell him that, for me?”

“I’d be happy to,” said Professor Lupin. “Have a good summer, Draco.”

And then he left.

A few days after his birthday (Harry did not send a gift, or even a card), Draco found his mother in her sitting-room while Father was out. He wanted to ask her a question.

“No, darling,” Mother said. “I didn’t tell your father about cousin Sirius. You know I love him, but discretion is not always his strongest suit. Anyway, he’s not a Black; he wouldn’t understand.”

“But you told him about Aunt Bellatrix,” Draco said.

“She tried to hurt _ you _,” Mother said. She looked very firm and resolute and terribly, terribly sad. “Azkaban has clearly driven her mad, if she’d do that. I wish I could still protect her, but I’m afraid it’s too late, if she’s that far gone.”

“Oh,” said Draco. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Draco,” said Mother. She motioned for him to sit beside her on the settee, and put her arm around him. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Last summer, Draco had begun insisting he was too grown-up, at twelve, for this sort of thing. Now that he was thirteen he rather thought he’d grown up enough to know better, and be grateful for the comfort.

“Still, though,” he said. “You ought to be able to trust your family.” 

He was thinking of his aunt Bellatrix when he said it, but it occurred to him that he might as well have meant Sirius, who Mother had thought was on the Dark Lord’s side all these years but never really had been. Or his other aunt, the one he’d never met, who’d abandoned her sisters years and years ago.

But Mother smiled and shook her head. “Don’t be silly, darling,” she said. “You and your father are all the family I need.”

And that, Draco supposed, would have to be enough.

Harry only unbent a little, over the course of the summer. Cousin Sirius said, in one of his letters, that Draco was best off waiting him out. _ His birth mum was a grudge-holder, too, _ he said. _ And she’d hold on tighter if you tried to talk her out of it, but left to her own devices Lily usually worked through it on her own eventually. _

But Draco was not a patient person at the best of times, which this was emphatically not. In desperation, Draco resorted to writing Weasley -- not asking for his help, of course, but sort of hinting around the edges that help, if offered, might not be entirely unwelcome.

Ron, of course, was still as subtle as a lead Bludger, and thought that Draco just wanted to strike up a correspondence. He was, a least, not prone to rambling in his letters: he kept it under a page, a bit of news about the few people they had in common and his sadly deluded hopes for the Chudley Cannons in the coming season.

One piece of news caught Draco’s attention. 

_ Did you know that Professor Lupin can’t brew Wolfsbane Potion for himself? Even if he knew how -- apparently the Ministry doesn’t allow Dark Creatures to buy some of the ingredients. I thought Hermione would spit nails when she found out, she was that angry -- _

Well, that was just typical, Draco thought. Exactly the sort of bureaucratic idiocy Father always talked about. An obvious problem with an easy fix, that any half-decent politician could make short work of.

And Draco’s father, he knew, was a tremendously capable politician.

But when Draco spoke to him, it all went wrong somehow. Draco explained the problem clearly, and Father nodded in approval -- yes, just as he’d always said, a tangle of red tape in every direction. He laid out the simple solution -- very good, Draco, you’ve clearly given this some thought. 

And then Draco said “So I think you ought to be the one to fix, it Father,” in perfect faith that he would, because that was what Draco’s father _ did. _ And once he had, Harry would forgive him and everything would go back to normal.

He said no.

Worse than that, he didn’t even take it seriously. He _ laughed_. And when Draco pressed the issue, and Father saw that Draco meant it, he said that he had to save his political capital for things that _ really mattered_. 

“I’m trying to protect your future, Draco,” he said. “To do that, I need to be respected at the Ministry. I can’t waste important people’s time with minor issues like this, when there are bigger things at stake.”

Draco had never had a row with Father before. He didn’t like it. It only got worse when Mother tried to smooth things over. She told him that she was pleased to see him taking an interest, but he shouldn’t fight other peoples’ battles, and it wasn’t as if it even affected anyone he knew.

“Didn’t you tell me cousin Sirius learned to brew Wolfsbane?” she said. “So it’s a problem already solved. You needn’t worry about it any longer.”

Part of Draco wanted to wail _ but it’s still not fair! _ as if he were a child, or worse, as if he were Granger. He didn’t, of course: he nodded and agreed with Mother and didn’t bring it up again. Father brought home a puppy from the Crabbes’ crup’s new litter, by way of a peace offering. Draco named it Meriadoc, and called it Merry, and didn’t mention where he’d gotten the name. 

And he wrote a letter to Ron, complaining about the unfairness of it all, because he needed to know that _ someone _ else saw it, even if it was only a Weasley.

Ron must have told Harry as soon as he read it, because within a week Draco had a letter from Harry’s snowy owl. _ Thank you for trying, _ he read, as Mother scolded Hedwig for her table manners and shooed her away from the remains of breakfast. _ I’m still not happy about it, but I know you didn’t mean for Moony to get in trouble. _

It hadn’t occurred to Draco that _ trying _ to help might count for as much as actually helping. But either way he’d mended fences with Harry, as he meant to, and there was still a good bit of summer and the Quidditch World Cup to look forward to.

Maybe he’d even make it to the museum with Harry, this time.


	4. Chapter 4

Over the course of his fourth year at Hogwarts, Draco realized, with a sinking sort of feeling, that most of his friends didn't expect very much from him.

It came over him slowly, at first. Little things: the way that Vince and Greg laughed at his jokes whether or not they understood the punchlines; the way Pansy’s opinions of their classmates only lasted until she heard Draco say something to contradict them. Theo turned his nose up, when Draco offered to teach him the Tengwar alphabet he and Harry used to pass notes in class. Flint let Draco propose new Quidditch plays but he never used them, even the ones Draco _ knew _ would have worked; it was poor consolation when Weasley, upon seeing them, agreed that Gryffindor would have had a difficult time if they’d had Quidditch that year.

Certainly none of Draco’s Slytherin friends would ever have fixed him with a hard stare, mouth pressed into a firm line, and told him they’d expected _ better _ of him, Draco, _ honestly. _

Not that he wanted them to, of course. It was bad enough when Granger did it. But it was the principle of the thing.

So it took him a little while to realize, as the Hogwarts Express puffed out of the station towards London, that his fellow Slytherins had crowded into his compartment for a reason.

He had looked for an empty compartment, to begin with, and hoped that he could have it to himself. But one by one, the other Slytherins in Draco’s year filed in. And one by one, they all turned to Draco.

“Well?” said Theo. “Is it true?”

“Harry says it is,” said Draco, hedging.

“So you’ve spoken to him,” said Pansy.

“A bit,” said Draco. “Just now.” 

Which was, in fact the reason Draco had so hoped to be left alone.

He’d gone to look for Harry as soon as he boarded the train, and found him with Granger and Weasley standing lookout at the door. When he asked to talk to Harry, they’d exchanged a look that Draco couldn’t read at all, before Weasley stood aside and Granger shut the door behind him.

Harry looked dreadful: blank and exhausted and weighed down by something invisible but very, very heavy.

“It’s true, then?” said Draco. “He’s back? He killed Diggory?”

Harry nodded.

“Oh,” said Draco. “That’s -- bad.”

Weasley snorted. “Bit of an understatement there, mate,” he said. “There’s going to be another war. ‘Bad’ doesn’t cover it.”

Weasley threw himself down onto the seat next to Granger. She looked more worried and upset than Draco had ever seen her, an order of magnitude past any revision fit or final-exam frenzy.

Harry said, “Draco. You ought to know. In the graveyard, when the Death Eaters came. I saw your--”

“No,” said Draco. He shook his head, and backed away until he hit the door. If he didn’t hear it out loud, he could go on pretending not to know it. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want any part of it.”

“I don’t think that’s an option,” said Granger. “You’re going to have to choose a side.”

“No!” said Draco. “We’re only students. Why should we get involved?”

“Some of us don’t have a choice,” said Harry. His voice was very low and hoarse, like he’d been shouting, and no longer had any shouting left in him.

Granger nodded, her expression resolute. But she _ would _ think that, Muggleborn and Gryffindor that she was.

Draco looked at Weasley, pleadingly. He was a pureblood; he could stay out of it too, if he wanted. He ought to understand. But he looked just like Granger.

“The Ministry’s going to pretend nothing’s wrong,” Weasley said. “Someone’s got to do something.”

“And whoever that is, that’s who the Dark Lord will go after first!” Draco said. “You don’t have to throw yourself at the front of the line.”

“I didn’t,” said Harry. “I was already there. Since I was born.”

“Oh, don't be dramatic,” said Draco. “This isn’t -- I’m not -- I have to go.” He flung himself back out into the hall, and went to look for an empty compartment.

They had all looked so _ disappointed _ in him. Draco couldn’t stop thinking about the looks on their faces, as he left. They’d looked as if they expected him to throw in with them on the spot. As if that was the better option.

The other Slytherins didn't look disappointed. They looked… expectant. Eager, maybe.

“D’you believe him, then?” said Bulstrode.

“Yes,” said Draco. “Why would he lie?”

“Well,” said Zabini, “there’s Diggory. Whatever killed him -- even an accident -- MacIntyre wouldn’t want to take the blame, would he?”

“No, that doesn’t sound right,” said Theo. “He’s not the type to tell stories. Too Gryffindor: when he does something he oughn’t, he owns up and takes the lost points.”

“Diggory’s _ dead_,” said Draco. “This is about more than lost points!”

But Theo just fixed him with a cool, steady look. “Yes,” he said. “Which is why we want to know what really happened, and what’s going to happen.”

“All I know is that the Dark Lord killed Diggory,” said Draco. “Which sounds like the sort of thing he’d do, really. He’s never cared much about, you know. Collateral damage.”

“Wait,” said Vince. “How d’you know that?”

They didn’t know, Draco realized. He never told them what he saw in the Forest in first year, or what he knew about Professor Quirrell. They were all very careful not to ask about the Chamber of Secrets, of course. And when he was nearly murdered by his own aunt, last year, it had been the last thing he wanted to talk about.

“Oh, I see,” he said. “When you didn’t have to worry about it -- when I was the only one being frightened out of my wits and nearly killed -- none of you lot wanted to know. But now that the Dark Lord’s back and you might get caught in the crossfire, you’re all ears!”

They at least had the decency to look a bit embarrassed. Bulstrode said, “It’s not that, Draco, really it isn’t.”

“Hm,” was all Draco said. He _ would _ tell them -- he didn’t like the idea of any of his friends going unprepared into whatever was about to happen -- but it wouldn’t hurt to let them stew a little, first. 

Maybe it would even make them listen better.

He relented after a minute. “Oh, all right,” he said. “I don’t know all of this first-hand, mind. But I can tell you what I saw for myself, and what I’m told happened for the rest.”

Draco was, in his opinion, a not untalented storyteller. It was very satisfying to see how the other Slytherins reacted to the nearly-complete versions of Draco’s previous run-ins with the Dark Lord and his servants -- with, of course, some careful editing around Cousin Sirius. For a little while, Draco lost himself in reliving those past triumphs.

And then he got to the end, and remembered that despite all that, the Dark Lord had not remained defeated. That he was back, and in all likelihood preparing to start another war.

There was quiet in the compartment, for a little while. No one wanted to be the first to speak.

“But what are we supposed to _ do _?” Pansy burst out. “The Dark Lord’s supposed to stand for, for tradition, and proper magic, and not letting the Muggles take over. But you make him sound like — like —“

“A power-mad loony?” Zabini suggested.

“Yes!” Pansy crossed her arms and flounced back against her seat. “As loony as Dumbledore, and his lot. Loonier, even.”

“He came back from the dead,” said Greg. “More than once. He can’t be _ all _ talk.”

“I’m not saying he isn’t powerful,” said Draco. “I’m saying he’s only looking out for himself.”

The other Slytherins considered this. Looking out for yourself wasn’t necessarily a _ bad _ thing, of course. But it made one think rather harder about who could be trusted to look out for their allies, as well.

“Well, I’m not throwing in with Potter’s crowd,” said Theo. “I don’t care how chummy you are with him, there have to be _ some _ standards. He’s got the teachers treating his friends better than any proper wizard in the place! I mean, really, d’you think that Mudblood Granger would keep coming tops if she wasn’t his friend?”

“Oh, come off it,” said Draco. “Granger’s obviously a sport. I’ve seen her revising for exams. She’d probably get even higher marks if she wasn’t dragging Weasley up behind her.”

But that was beside the point. “Anyway, I’m not saying I want to fall in behind Dumbledore and let the whole world go to the Muggles,” he said. “I’m saying, if you’re smart, you’ll stay out of it.”

“Let the loonies pick each other off, you mean,” said Blaise. “And be the sensible ones left standing when it’s over.”

Draco didn’t know how he felt about the _ pick each other off _ part: there were too many people he cared for, on either side, who would be the ones getting picked. But it was close enough to what he meant that he nodded approvingly at Blaise.

“Right,” he said. “If there has to be another war, we don't have to be the ones to fight it.”

That got an encouraging reaction, so Draco kept going. 

“Really, I don’t think there _ has _ to be a war at all. The Dark Lord’s still just one man. I know some of our parents thought he was worth following when they were, you know, young and impetuous, but they’re grown-up now. Surely they’ll see sense.”

No one else seemed very sure of that. Pansy bit her lip; Greg and Vince furrowed their brows. Theo smiled thinly. But Zabini looked thoughtful, and Bulstrode knocked her shoulder against Draco’s reassuringly.

“Cheer up, Draco,” she said. “We’ve got all summer before we have to worry much about it, don’t we?”

“I hope so,” Draco said. 

When he got off the train, though, and saw Mother with her face composed and cold, and Father looking positively smug, Draco knew the truth. 

The war was fast approaching. If Draco wanted to stake out neutral ground, he had to start right away. There would be no putting it off. 


	5. Chapter 5

Draco knew there would be no one waiting for him, when the Hogwarts Express arrived in London at the end of fifth year. But part of him still hoped for it, irrationally: perhaps everything that had happened would have un-happened, somehow, miraculously. Perhaps his parents would be there on the platform together, side by side, waiting to take him home to a world where nothing had gone wrong and no-one had been hurt.

They weren’t, of course.

Draco stood there with his trunk, watching everyone else’s reunions, until someone shoved him, gently, from behind.

“C’mon,” said Harry. “Time to go.”

Most of the greetings Draco saw, as he made his way along the platform with Harry and Ron and Hermione, were subdued in comparison to years past. It seemed as if public knowledge of the Dark Lord’s return had arrived in the form of a great, damp, muffling cloud, a sort of thinned-down Dementor fog that made everyone quieter and grimmer and sterner-faced. Harry had been quiet and stern-faced all year, of course, so by comparison to the general mood he actually looked a bit lighter than before.

But then, Harry had been vindicated, proved right in front of the whole Ministry, and had his godfather exonerated into the bargain. As for Draco, well. His cousin was exonerated. His father, on the other hand, was not, and would not be, and, in point of fact, shouldn’t. Though with the Dementors gone from Azkaban… a breakout seemed likely, and soon. 

Not that a breakout would make anything _ better_, of course. Rather the opposite. Father had made it more than clear that he would come running when the Dark Lord called, and do whatever was required to keep his favor. He’d even lie to Draco, if that was the only way to get what the Dark Lord wanted.

Draco caught a number of nasty looks aimed his way, from various directions. And a handful of pitying ones, which were worse.

Right up at the front of the train, Pansy stepped down to the platform just as Draco passed by. She gave Draco a hard frown, put her nose in the air, and turned her back, marching off to the barrier without a second glance.

“Do you think she’s angry because I wouldn’t pick a side all year, or because she doesn’t like the side I ended up on?” Draco said. He couldn’t quite bring himself to call it the side he had _ chosen_, yet. Things had just happened, one after the other.

“Dunno,” said Ron. “Could be both.”

Unfortunately, that seemed likely.

Professor Lupin was waiting by the barrier, with Cousin Dora and a smallish swarm of Weasleys. “Sirius was causing a bit of a sensation, I'm afraid,” he said. “After the fourth person came up to say they knew he hadn't done it all along--”

“Ugh,” said Harry.

“Exactly so. He's on the Muggle side of the station, with Tim and Caro.”

“Do they know about, um--” Draco wasn't sure how he wanted the sentence to end. _ Do they know my father’s in prison and my mother’s a hostage in her own home and they've got a very politically awkward houseguest for the summer _was the most accurate way he could think to put it, and the least palatable.

“They know,” said Professor Lupin. 

Cousin Dora slung her arm around Draco’s shoulders. “Cheer up,” she said. “You’ll like Harry’s parents, and I’ll be around a fair bit on guard duty.”

“Oh,” Draco said. “That’s nice.” He meant it, more or less.

She didn’t take offense, anyway. “It’s all right. You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. Nobody expects you to, before you’re ready.”

Indeed, when Draco met Harry’s parents at the station cafe, they simply gave every appearance of being happy to meet him, and pleased to have him as a guest.

And they didn't try to hug him, like his cousins did. Draco put up with about six more seconds and two more hearty back-slaps than he really wanted, before Sirius let him go. “Glad to have you with us,” he told Draco, and while Draco understood all the ways he meant it, he couldn't quite muster the same enthusiasm in response.

Harry lived in a compact and book-lined house on a quiet Muggle street. Draco had never been in a Muggle house before, and looked around curiously for a moment, as they entered.

“Got a surprise for you,” Sirius said, disappearing towards the back of the house. Draco heard a door open, and then there was a lot of frenzied barking and skittering of paws. For a moment, Draco was terribly confused: he knew about the Animagery, and anyway Padfoot wasn't usually so high-pitched--

“Merry!” Draco cried, and dropped to his knees just in time to catch Merry as he launched his little body into Draco’s arms, both tails wagging furiously.

“We’ve got a bit of a backchannel,” Sirius said, as he came back in. “My family’s awful old house-elf has been playing go-between for Narcissa. We can't use him too much, but she thought Merry would be better off here than at Malfoy Manor. And she sent a letter.”

After Harry’s parents insisted on feeding him, and Harry explained how the light switches worked, and Merry had been let out into the back garden to run a few laps and do his business, Cousin Sirius showed him up to the spare bedroom. “It was just the one room to start with, of course,” Sirius said, opening the door to a smallish sitting-room with several doors leading off it. “Took all sorts of expanding charms, and if Tim and Caro ever sell the house we’ll have to figure out how to take them off again -- but never mind. Here you are.”

The room looked as though someone had been using it as an office, and the bed had an air of recent and hurried transfiguration; Draco strongly suspected it of being a settee pressed hastily into service. But his trunk was there, and an overlarge dog bed for Merry, and there were no Death Eaters whatsoever anywhere in the house. It would do. 

“Right,” said Sirius. “Remus and I have an Order meeting in a bit, but Tonks is staying behind, if anything happens. And, look -- I know you don’t want to talk about it. But I’ll be here, if you need me.”

And then Draco was alone, and could read his letter.

It wasn’t at all like his last letter from Mother, which had wandered elegantly around and past saying anything outright, while being clear that it would not be safe for Draco to come home. 

_ You don’t have to fight, for them or for anyone else, _ Mother said, _ but take whatever protection you are offered. Keep your cousins out of trouble, if you can. I won’t leave our home to the mercy of whatever rabble the Dark Lord surrounds himself with, not yet; Bellatrix will protect me for as long as she thinks I agree with her. If that changes, I will look for a way out. I do not think your father will be in Azkaban for much longer, and I hope by now he understands that the Dark Lord’s favor cannot be counted upon. We will do what we can, from here, to limit his worst excesses. Perhaps something can still be salvaged from this mess. _

Draco was torn between relief and frustration. What could there possibly be to salvage? _ His worst excesses _ \-- would that be _ all _ of the murder and torture, or just the murder and torture of important pureblooded wizards?

It was the same sort of nonsense that had him arguing with Father, all this last year. Father would say things like _ I am just trying to protect our way of life_, and Draco found himself wanting to ask: protect it from what? From who? From Harry, who treated his famous name and his famous scar like an embarrassing birthmark he’d rather keep covered up? From the Weasleys, who had the collective political acumen of a deflated Quaffle? From Granger, whose eyes filled with furious tears at the merest thought of injustice? From Luna, who ought to know better than to treat Draco as if he deserved her trust, but carried on doing it anyway?

From the Muggles, perhaps. But no Muggle had ever wrecked Draco’s life as comprehensively as the Dark Lord. If he was trying to keep pure-blooded wizards in their rightful place, he wasn’t off to a very good start.

The first days of summer were quiet enough. Harry provided most of the excitement: he was waging a one-man campaign to be allowed at Order meetings, versus all of the adults in the house. No one tried to pull Draco into the argument, thankfully. Though, if asked, he might have said that he thought Harry had every right to be included, and every reason to want to stay home. 

It never escalated to outright shouting, anyway, or interfered with what was apparently a very important and long-standing ritual of Harry making breakfast with his father and Sirius on Sunday mornings.

“They’ll be back at loggerheads by supper, I’m sure,” said Mrs. MacIntyre to Draco, in confidential tones. “But breakfast must be made, though the heavens may fall.” 

She was smiling, but Draco recognized the worry in her eyes. He had not expected Harry’s Muggle parents to fully understand the situation -- or to be capable of understanding, if he were honest -- but the look in Mrs. MacIntyre’s eyes was a match for one that Draco knew from his own mother.

There were no attacks, no Death Eaters testing the defenses, no news from Azkaban or from Malfoy Manor. They did have a bit of a scare one afternoon, when only Harry and Draco and Cousin Sirius were at home, and all the magical alarms on the front door went off.

It seemed like half the Order all Apparated into Harry’s parlor in a panic. Cousin Dora splinched herself a bit, and Merry nearly got himself hexed for startling Mad-Eye Moody with his barking. But once everyone calmed down, it became clear that it was only a pack of Muggles at the door: Harry’s friends from primary school, inviting him to football in the park.

Harry, with characteristic stubbornness, insisted on going. It was agreed that Sirius would follow along as Padfoot, and the others would go back to their meeting. Draco, faced with the prospect of moping about in an empty house, decided to tag along with Harry.

While Harry and Padfoot and his Muggle friends ran around after a black-and-white ball, Draco sat on the sidelines with Merry. He was joined, after a little while, by another Muggle boy, who had one foot bound up in a curious, bulky grey-and-black boot. 

“Rugby, I’m afraid,” the boy said, when he saw Draco looking. “Broke a couple of toes. Should be back on form in another few weeks. What’s this fellow’s name?”

“Meriadoc,” said Draco, and aimed a severe look at Merry, who was shamelessly allowing the Muggle boy to rub his belly.

“Oh!” said the boy, brightening up. “Are you a fan too, then? I’ve been working my way through _ The History of Middle-Earth. _ The last volume’s just out, I’m dead excited.”

It was the longest Draco had ever talked to a Muggle in his life, and for most of the conversation they did not so much as mention either of the worlds they came from. Merry got bored somewhere around the downfall of Númenor, and joined the fray around the black-and-white ball instead. Draco hardly noticed, because Malcolm was extremely wrong about Eärendil, and needed correcting.

“So you’re Draco, right?” Malcolm said. “Harry’s mentioned you in his letters -- said you’ve kept him in practice with his Tengwar.”

“Er, yes,” said Draco. He hadn’t realized that Harry kept up with his Muggle friends while he was at Hogwarts.

“Didn’t hear much from him, this year.” Malcolm tugged up a blade of grass and picked it to pieces, his eyes on the field. “Seems like things were a bit difficult.”

Umbridge censored everyone’s letters for much of the year, of course. The first few months, she gave the Inquisitorial Squad a set of guidelines and left them to it, but apparently Draco used too light a hand. There had been a distinct lack of owls in the Great Hall, most mornings after that.

“Mm,” said Draco. Anything more would have broken the Statute of Secrecy, in all likelihood, and also required Draco to think about things that he would much prefer not to.

“It’s okay,” said Malcolm. “I know I’m not supposed to meddle in the affairs of… well, some people.”

Draco gave him a startled look. Malcom was still staring out at the field. Half the Muggles were chasing Merry, who had the ball in his mouth, and half had given up, and sat down in the grass with Padfoot and Harry. He was laughing at something one of them had said.

“I don’t know that I’d call Harry subtle,” Draco said. “Quick to anger, sometimes, certainly.”

“And not very punctual, either,” said Malcolm. “False advertising, if you ask me.”

“Oh, I always arrive precisely when I mean to,” said Draco. “That bit’s absolutely correct.”

Malcolm laughed, but then they both fell quiet for a while.

“If I wanted to know more,” he said.

“Then I would probably say… oh, I don’t know. _It is perilous to study too deeply the arts of the Enemy_, maybe,” Draco said. “_For good or for ill_.” 

“But we’re not enemies,” Malcolm said. 

Which ran counter to everything Draco had ever been told about Muggles, of course. But it matched up to most of what he’d seen first-hand.

Draco rifled through pages in his memory, looking for the right response. “_It’s a dangerous business, going out your door_,” he said. “_You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to_.”

Malcolm took the warning for what it was, and nodded. 

“You’re better off out of it,” Draco said. “I wish I was. I wish Harry was. I’m sure Harry does, too.”

“Yeah,” Malcolm said. “But, well. _ So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide.” _

Draco knew the rest of that one. _ All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us. _

The next day, Harry’s parents left for work, and Professor Lupin and Cousin Sirius left for an Order meeting. Draco came downstairs to find Mad-Eye Moody in the parlor, scowling out the front window, and Harry on the back steps, scowling at the garden. Draco sat down on the step beside him.

“Too bad we can’t go flying,” Draco said. “Perfect weather for it.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I’m afraid I’m getting out of practice. If we have Quidditch again this year--”

“We had _ better_,” Draco said, appalled. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing!” Harry said. “It’d be just my luck, is all.”

“Well, I won’t stand for it,” Draco said. “Practically the only decent thing about last year was that I could reserve the Quidditch pitch as often as I wanted. I’m finally in top form! If I can’t beat you at Quidditch next year then I don’t even see the point in _ going_, honestly.”

“Wait,” said Harry. “Umbridge let you have the Quidditch pitch _as often as you wanted _?”

He looked so deeply, genuinely indignant that Draco couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry, is _ that _ the final straw?” Draco said. “You could put up with the idiotic rules and the horrible detentions and the frankly very weird obsession she had with you, but giving Slytherin a leg up in Quidditch -- _ that’s _ beyond the pale.”

“Right, exactly,” Harry said. He laughed along with Draco, because it _ was _ absurd, as much as it was awful, just as everything else had been absurd and awful all year. “You understand, of course.”

They subsided after a while, and sat in companionable-enough silence.

Eventually, Harry said “I know you don’t want to talk about -- the rest of it. But I wanted you to know --”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” Draco said. “That I don’t want to talk about it. I do want to, actually. Rather a lot. It’s just that ordinarily, the people I would talk about it _ with _ would be my parents.”

“Oh,” said Harry.

“So you see my problem,” said Draco.

“I suppose,” said Harry. “I guess I thought -- well. It was different for Padfoot. He hated his parents. They disowned him, after he left.”

Draco knew this, had heard the story more than once: that Cousin Sirius left his family at fifteen, and James Potter’s parents took him in. He could see the similarities, in broad strokes. But in the specifics, Draco’s situation was entirely different.

“I don’t hate my parents,” he said. “I’m quite angry with them, especially Father. But I don’t hate them. And I’m not _ disowned_, or any of that nonsense. It was Mother’s idea that I come here in the first place.”

“Right,” said Harry, though it was clear he’d forgotten that detail. “Except they are still trying to help Voldemort, you know, kill rather a lot of people. Including me.”

“At this point, I think Mother’s just trying to keep him from making an example out of Father and wrecking our house,” Draco said.

“Do you think that’s enough?” Harry said.

Draco didn’t answer for a while. In the quiet, he could hear Mad-Eye stumping around inside, on one of his periodic spot patrols.

“You know I don’t want to fight,” Draco said. “Everything I’ve done, all this last year -- all I’ve done is try to prove that there’s a middle ground. Stake out a place for the people who don’t want a part in any war.”

“How’d that work out?” said Harry.

Draco glared at him. “Poorly. As you know.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “But at least we know we’re fighting to protect people. He just wants power for himself.”

Draco wanted to say _ but his followers think they’re fighting to protect people, too_. He didn’t. The words sounded hollow, in his head. Too much like Father’s platitudes and Mother’s rationalizations. Too much like himself, months ago, insisting that the only reasonable side to choose was _ neither_.

“You’re going to be extremely insufferable about being right, aren’t you?” Draco said.

“Not as much as Hermione will,” said Harry.

“Ugh, I didn’t even think of that,” said Draco. “What a miserable start to the summer.”

“Could be worse,” said Harry.

“All of you forgot my birthday,” Draco said.

“Oh, _ no, _ really?” Harry said, and the worst thing was, he was so genuinely upset about it that Draco couldn’t even hold a grudge.


	6. Chapter 6

The summer after his sixth year at Hogwarts, Draco hid.

He didn’t take the train, and he didn’t take the room he was offered at Grimmauld Place. He stayed with Aunt Andromeda. When Cousin Sirius called, he went up to the guest room and cast _ Protego _ on the door; when Cousin Dora visited, he took Merry for a walk and didn’t come back until she’d gone. He ignored the letters that piled up, no matter how urgently they were addressed or how reproachfully Hedwig looked at him.

He’d have made it to July that way if not for Hermione, who Apparated into the room without warning, waking Draco from a sound sleep and sending Merry absolutely mad with barking.

“What is _ wrong _ with you?” she demanded, standing at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed and frowning like a thundercloud.

Draco gaped at her, still only half awake. “What?”

“You won’t talk to anyone!” Hermione said. She bent to pick up Merry, and let him lick her face, the little traitor, without losing steam. “You won’t answer your letters! Everyone’s been worried sick!”

“Why do you even care?” Draco demanded. “Leave me alone! I just want to be left alone!”

He meant it: he couldn’t stand the thought of facing anyone’s contempt or pity. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Father’s face, pleading with him, offering Draco everything he wanted. _ Everything can be like it was. We’ll have our rightful place back, all of us, you’ll be with your mother and with me where you belong. We’ll go home, we’ll make it right, just as it was. The Dark Lord will forgive everything, if only we can-- _

And Draco was, somehow, still stupid enough to believe that his father was right, that his father wanted what was best for him, that there was a life waiting for him to step back into as if he’d never left it. He’d wanted to believe in that, just for a moment, in his weakness and stupidity. Wanted it enough to kill for it.

Father had used that, of course. Because what Father really wanted, more than anything, was his own place at the Dark’s Lord’s right hand.

“Draco, you don’t have to be alone,” Hermione said. Merry was trying to wriggle to freedom, and she let him down onto the foot of Draco’s bed. He immediately mounted a campaign against Draco’s pyjama sleeve. “I don’t know how you must be feeling--”

“No, you don’t,” Draco said. “Your parents never tried to talk you into killing anyone!”

“My parents are in Australia under assumed names,” Hermione snapped back at him, “and if you want to change that state of affairs, you ought to stop sulking and come _ help _ us!”

Draco could cope with a Hermione who was angry at him far better than a sympathetic one, at least: he had a lot more practice.

“What do you want me to do?” he said. “It’s not as though anyone in the Order’s going to trust me.”

“Oh, _ honestly_,” Hermione said. “We _ know _ you. You wouldn’t have actually done it. Even if Snape hadn’t --”

“What do you know?” Draco said. “I would have. I was _ trying _ to.”

Hermione shook her head and, strangely, smiled a little, the corners of her mouth turning up while her eyes remained serious. “You really have to _ mean _ the Killing Curse,” she said. “I’ve learned a bit about it, lately -- Dumbledore told Harry some things, and he told me. I don’t think you could have done it. Not really.”

Some small, surface part of Draco was a little affronted at that. The rest of him, though, all the parts that had been screaming with wrongness through that whole awful night, through every moment at the top of the tower -- the rest of him was relieved.

“All right,” he said. “Fine. Thank you, I suppose.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Now, answer your letters and stop avoiding everyone, will you?”

“All _ right_,” Draco said. “If it means you’ll leave _ off _ already.”

Hermione insisted on shaking on it, which was playing dirty because she knew that meant Draco _ would _ take it seriously. “ _ And _ I’d better see you at Bill and Fleur’s wedding,” she said. “You’ve still got a few days to RSVP.”

“You’re relentless,” Draco said, but he agreed to it, and after Hermione Apparated out again he fetched the stack of unopened mail. 

Nothing in it could possibly be worse than being shouted at by Granger in his pyjamas, he supposed. She had probably known that. It was infuriating, but also a strange sort of comfort.

He opened the first letter in the stack, and tried to focus. Albus Dumbledore was dead, and it was at least a little bit Draco’s fault, but there was nothing to be done for it now. He had other work to do.


	7. Chapter 7

At the end of his seventh year at Hogwarts, Draco let his Shield Charm sputter into nonexistence, and fell over.

He didn’t quite land. The first- and second-years he’d kept behind him, all through the battle, helped him down to the ground. 

“Put your head between your knees and take deep breaths,” a second-year Hufflepuff told him. Draco couldn't remember her name. He'd seen her doing her best Granger impression in the Room of Requirement all year, bossing the younger students around. Not a patch on the genuine article, of course, but it took time and practice and very patient friends to know-it-all at Hermione’s level. There was no shame in not measuring up to that.

It had been such a relief to see her, when Neville fetched Hermione and Ron and Harry from Hogsmeade. He hoped like hell she wasn't dead.

When Draco could get his feet under him again, he let the second-year Hufflepuff herd her peers along behind him, and led them to the Great Hall. 

Closest to the doors were the safe and the wounded, the former seeing to the latter. Most of Draco’s charges scattered there. Some were swarmed by relieved friends; others rushed to aid the injured. A few kept scanning the crowd, looking for people who weren't among the upright. 

Draco had a list, in his head, and he ticked off names as he made his way down. There were Neville and Luna sitting up half-awake, leaning against each other. There was Cousin Sirius, winding a bandage round Professor Lupin’s arm; next to him, Cousin Dora was cleaning a cut at Tulip’s hairline that had bled all down one side of her face. There was Millie, bawling Seamus out for, presumably, doing something so excessively Gryffindor that it had scorched all the hair off his head. There was Madame Pomfrey up to her elbows in someone’s blood, and Professor Flitwick calming a little group of inconsolable Ravenclaws, and Professor McGonagall looking older and wearier than Draco had ever seen her.

Past them, towards the middle and back of the hall, the dead were laid out. The Order and the students, first, and farther on the black-clad shapes of Death Eaters. Here were more names for the list: Lavender Brown, just there, and Colin Creevey with his brother hunched over him and weeping. Draco saw the Weasleys all huddled together, but he couldn't make out which of the red-headed figures were which, who was alive or who they were mourning. The second-year Hufflepuff let out a little cry and went flying towards one of the bodies in school robes, by the windows, and Draco went on alone.

There was a point past which none of the dead had anyone standing over them -- or nearly. Draco kept walking. 

Most of the Death Eaters were still masked, but there were some for Draco’s list here, too. There was Greg’s father, and over there a woman Draco had seen at a dozen dinner-parties without ever remembering her name. Both Carrows were accounted for, and Avery, and Mulciber, and over there was Theo, his face grey except where it was red.

And up ahead, sitting straight-backed between the bodies of Aunt Bellatrix and Father, was Draco’s mother.

“_Mum_,” said Draco. She turned, and he fell over again, and this time she was the one who caught him.

Neither of them wanted to leave Father, even after they had finished weeping all over one another. No one else made the long walk to where they sat, on the cold stone floor, for a long time.

Eventually, Luna picked her way down the aisle, between the bodies and chunks of rubble. “You had better eat something,” she said. She kept her eyes fixed on Draco, never wavering even to glance at Mother or Father or Aunt Bellatrix. “Are you all right?”

Draco nodded, and climbed painfully to his feet, and helped Mother up to hers.

It was better, down at the other end of the Hall, with the living. No-one seemed to think that Draco or Mother shouldn’t be there; there were even a number of cries of relief, upon seeing him. Cousin Sirius clapped him on the back and mussed his hair. Cousin Dora introduced herself to Mother, and Mother shook her hand. At some point, Hermione pushed plates of food on them.

“You look awful, Draco, honestly,” she said. “What did you do, try to keep a Patronus up the whole time?”

“No,” said Draco. Exhaustion made him talk more than he meant to. “Mostly just _ Protego. _Some of the younger kids got separated from the rest, when they were evacuating. I kept them out of the worst of it.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m glad.” Draco had seen her look pleased with him, once in a while, and occasionally impressed by some bit of cleverness, but never quite so proud as this.

“I’ll send Harry over, if I can,” Hermione said. “Ron is -- we lost Fred. But Ron’s all right. He’ll be all right.”

“Good,” said Draco. “I’m -- glad you made it through. Both of you.”

Hermione’s smile was watery. Everyone’s smiles were watery. “I’m glad you made it through, too.”

“I was so afraid,” Mother said, after Hermione had gone. “You would have been targeted, if you’d been in the middle of the fighting.”

“I still was,” said Draco. He took a deep breath, and then another. “Some Death Eater got the drop on me, once. It might have been Rookwood. I didn’t see his face, but his voice -- he was gloating. Said he’d been hoping to make an example of me, show what happened to blood traitors. And then --”

Draco broke off. He still wasn’t sure, not completely. He wanted to be sure.

“What happened?” said Mother.

“Another Death Eater hit him with a Killing Curse,” Draco said. “I think -- I think it was Father. He didn’t say anything else, just fired it off and ran.”

Mother said nothing, for a while. Then she nodded. “He promised me he would,” she said. “If he saw you in any danger.”

“Oh,” said Draco. He set down his fork, and put his hands over his face.

They didn’t go home, of course; home was a ruin, and would remain so for some time. Cousin Sirius offered them Grimmauld Place, but Mother turned him down, and they went to stay with Aunt Andromeda instead.

It made sense, of a sort, that they could reconcile now, Draco thought. They had more in common than they didn’t. They were both widows; their children were both, supposedly, war heroes. They were the last of the Blacks, aside from Cousin Sirius. They both had lost their sister, who’d loved the Dark Lord more than she loved either of them.

Draco expected that the Aurors would turn up for Mother, eventually, but they never did. 

“Huh? Nah, that’s all settled,” Cousin Dora said, when Draco gingerly brought it up. “I took her statement, and anyway Harry vouched for her.”

This was news to Draco. “Oh, yes,” Mother said. “I did tell the Dark Lord that Harry was dead, when he wasn’t. Did he not mention it to you?”

“You lied to the Dark Lord,” Draco said, staring at her.

“On any number of occasions,” she said. She smiled serenely, and patted his hand. “It’s basic Occlumency, darling.”

Draco didn’t see Harry again until the end of July. Ron Flooed over the week before, and told him that Harry was having a birthday party. 

“He says he doesn’t want anyone to make a big fuss out of it, but frankly we all want an excuse to make a big fuss over something happy,” Ron said. “So you’d better be there.”

“Of course,” said Draco.

He brought the complete twelve-volume _ History of Middle-Earth _ for a gift, and arrived a bit early. Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Luna were already there, and Cousin Sirius and Professor Lupin, and Neville turned up only a little while after Draco.

But there was still a quiet moment for Draco to say hello to Harry’s parents, only recently returned from Australia, and to catch Harry alone in the back garden. He was lying on the bench by the shed with his knees over the armrest, looking up at the late blue morning and the white puffs of cloud that went skidding across it.

“You made it,” Harry said, sitting up. After a year of close quarters in the Room of Requirement, surrounded by innumerable displays of Hufflepuff and Gryffindor affection, Draco had finally figured out what to do with his arms when people hugged him. He was happy to sit crammed onto the little decorative bench with Harry for a while, in companionable silence, as the volume mounted in the house with each new joyful arrival.

“So,” Draco said eventually, “what happens next?”

“Well, first there’s a party,” Harry said, “and Padfoot is probably going to get drunk and make a speech, I’m warning you now.”

“I assumed as much,” Draco said. “I sort of meant, longer-term.”

“I dunno,” Harry said. “I mean, I’m definitely taking a gap year. Er, that’s a thing Muggles do before university -- take a year off, get a job, travel a bit. Figure yourself out, before the next thing starts.”

Draco considered this: a whole year with nothing expected of you and no one trying to kill you. “That sounds heavenly,” he said. “Sign me up.”

“You _ are _ supposed to go to uni afterwards,” Harry said. “Hermione’s already trying to fill out applications, but I told her she’s taking a gap year too whether she likes it or not.”

Draco snorted. “Best of luck with that.”

“Ron’s going to distract her with museums until the deadlines have passed, I think,” Harry said. “Bill said he can get them in to the wizarding archives at the Louvre, in a pinch. It _ should _ work.”

“Hm, it might actually,” Draco said. “And then university? I thought the Aurors were going to snap you up.”

“Nah,” Harry said. “They offered. Ron might say yes, he’s not keen on more school. But I was thinking about Edinburgh. It’s where Mum and Dad went, and they have some of the programs Hermione was looking at, too.”

Draco had never been to Edinburgh, and he had no idea what a Muggle university would be like. He’d seen the building where Harry had gone to primary school, all cinder blocks and -- what were they called, flowerescent lights -- and imagined it scaled up.

“No, it’s nothing like that!” Harry said, laughing. “It’s four hundred years old, parts of it practically look like Hogwarts.”

Draco tried to adjust his mental image. “So, Hogwarts, but full of Muggles,” Draco said. “And studying Muggle subjects.”

“And we don’t have to live in dormitories, if we don’t want to,” said Harry. “And we’re old enough to drink. And no one will know us. We’d just be ordinary students, not famous, no nonsense about _ war heroes _ or anything like that.”

That was -- sort of wonderful, actually. “A fresh start.”

“Exactly,” Harry said. He gave Draco a speculative look. “You know, you’ve probably got enough Latin already to manage a Classics degree.”

“Would Granger be in any of my classes?” Draco asked.

“Almost certainly not,” Harry said. “So you’d stand a chance of coming tops, I suppose.”

“Tempting,” Draco said. “Very tempting. I’ll think about it. If -- I mean, if you wouldn’t mind me tagging along,” he added, suddenly aware that his presence might not be the sort of reminder Harry wanted for his _ fresh start_.

“Of course I wouldn’t mind,” Harry said. “I wouldn’t want to go _ entirely _ on my own, that’s why Hermione and I are applying to the same places.”

“It does have a certain appeal,” Draco admitted. 

“Even with all the Muggles?” Harry said. 

“I’m excellent at Muggle things now, I’ll have you know,” Draco said. “Aunt Andromeda has a telephone. I’ve used it twice. Father will be -- would have been. He would have been furious.”

There was quiet in the garden, for a little while. From the house, Draco heard a crashing noise followed by Cousin Dora laughing delightedly, which probably meant that Tulip had arrived.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry.

“Don’t be,” Draco said. “He was a bastard, and wrong about nearly everything, and if he’d lived I don’t know if saving my life one time would have been enough to make up for everything else.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m sorry,” Harry said. He pushed himself up off the bench. “Let’s go inside. I’m going to tell everyone that this was a surprise party for Neville’s birthday all along.”

“What?” Draco said. “But I didn’t get him anything--”

“That’s why Neville’s letting me do it,” Harry said, tugging Draco to his feet. “He agreed it would be hilarious to see everyone panic.” 

“How Slytherin of you,” Draco said, laughing.

“I have my moments,” Harry said. “Come on, already.”

And Draco went.


End file.
